Bring Me Water
by BookwormExtraordinary
Summary: Relaxing at Angelo's after a case, John seems rather distracted by something. This upsets Sherlock. Inspired by Shania Twain's song "Waiter, Bring Me Water." Johnlock. Oneshot.


A/N: This is based off of Shania Twain's song "Waiter, Bring Me Water". It's a rather good song and becomes remarkably more interesting when you view it from a Johnlock perspective. :-) I wrote this on a road trip to Texas.

* * *

Bring Me Water

By BookwormExtraordinary

* * *

Sherlock stepped through the door to Angelo's that his best friend and blogger was holding open for him. After the successful conclusion of the Case of the Mauve Teapot, as John had already informed Sherlock he was going to call it, the doctor's medical instincts had kicked in and demanded that the detective be forced to consume something after his five day sabbatical from sustenance. Angelo was, as always, thrilled to see the pair, ushering them to their customary table in the window. John ordered spaghetti for them both, along with a large pitcher of water. Angelo scurried off to fetch the water and most likely a candle, as he insisted on doing each time they dined there, no matter how many times John insisted they were just platonic.

John seemed unusually distracted, Sherlock noted. These post-case occasions traditionally consisted of John demanding that Sherlock eat more, while simultaneously Sherlock admonished John for whatever loyal and highly dangerous course of action he had taken that led to the capture of the villain.

John didn't seem interested in pursuing that ritual conversation this evening. Instead, he appeared to be distracted by something behind Sherlock. The detective casually lifted his gleaming knife, tilting the blade up slightly off the table so he could see behind him. The image was slightly distorted, but he caught a glimpse of blonde hair and white smile. Grasping the knife a bit firmer, Sherlock rotated his wrist to get a better view. As the picture came into focus, a plastic pitcher landed on the table in front of him, ice jangling merrily.

Sherlock set the knife down, trying to disguise the fact that he had been caught unawares by the Italian. Luckily, it appeared as if John had been startled as well, so his slip went unnoticed.

"And here's a candle for the happy couple." Angelo winked as the lit candle thumped down in the center near the pitcher.

Sherlock waited for John's declaration that they were "not a couple", but was disappointed. John instead completely ignored the candle, reaching for the pitcher. After pouring himself a glass, John glanced at Sherlock. "You should drink something," he instructed. Before Sherlock could so much as reach for his glass, John's attention was once more diverted over his shoulder.

Sherlock scowled. He lifted his knife again, this time into plain view, no longer surreptitious in his actions. It was a woman with long blonde hair, tanned skin, bright blue eyes, and a permanent grin. His own eyes roving over the image presented in his silverware, the detective could find no faults. Twenty-seven, West End actress with a promising career, new to town, first production on English soil, originally from California in America, three fish, living in an apartment on the river, recently broke up with her boyfriend and looking, if the provocative blue dress she was wearing was any indication.

As he watched, she quickly turned from her menu to the waiter taking her order, causally flipping her hair over her shoulder as she did so. Sherlock heard John's breath catch and lifted his eyes from his cutlery to his companion's face. John's gaze was locked on the girl, a look in his eyes that caused an inexplicable rush of anger directed at the blonde to fill Sherlock. Who did she think she was? Coming in here, distracting John when he should have been paying attention to _Sherlock_—

He broke off at the thought. Was that…was he…was that feeling growing in his chest…was it _jealousy_? Sherlock froze. Was it possible? Could he possibly be jealous of some unnamed girl who had captured his flatemate's interest? He wasn't sure he wanted to pursue that thought. He couldn't imagine it would end well to dissect any feelings he may or may not have towards his heterosexual blogger.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angelo meandering towards them with two steaming plates of pasta. Sherlock lowered his knife, making way for the plate. John was still staring, glass of water untouched in front of him. Angelo set their plates of spaghetti in front of them, giving Sherlock a sympathetic look as John took no notice, continuing his surveillance of the blonde. Sherlock could feel his cheeks warm. So Angelo thought his boyfriend was staring at someone else, that shouldn't elicit such a response from him. Besides it wasn't as if John really _was_ his boyfriend. He was just a friend, irrational jealously notwithstanding.

The pasta looked delicious, but Sherlock had no intention of partaking without John. Recalling where the distraction was sitting, Sherlock shifted in his seat to block John's view. Instead of snapping back to the present, John's unfocused eyes remained trained on Sherlock's forehead, as if he could see straight through it.

More anger welled up inside the detective, this directed more at John than the girl. He was ignoring Sherlock. He wasn't trying to get Sherlock to eat. He was just staring at some girl he'd never have a chance with. Sherlock reached out and grabbed the pitcher, calmly pouring himself a glass of water while seething on the inside. John had called himself Sherlock's _friend_. He had risked jail time and time again for Sherlock—had risked _death_—but it was too much for him to cease gaping at a blonde for twenty minutes and pay attention to Sherlock? How _dare_ he put a ditzy actress above his far more interesting flatmate?

John's gaze was still aimed through Sherlock's forehead, so he did what he had to to return John's focus to him.

* * *

A drenched John stared blankly at his retreating flatmate's back. What on earth had gotten into Sherlock? They had been calmly sitting there when the man had just snapped, tossing his water glass at John before saying something about "ditzy blondes being more important than flatmates" and storming off. The entire restaurant was now watching in stunned silence as the doctor dripped into his spaghetti. Then the whispering started. John heard a giggle and looked up to see the attractive blonde he'd noticed earlier _laughing_ at him! John's face burned and he knew he was turning an unattractive shade of bright red.

John dropped his gaze back to his plate. When had that arrived? He could see Angelo out of the corner of his eyes as he began to make his way to John. Once the Italian was standing next to him, John finally lifted his eyes from the damp spaghetti, focusing on the restaurateur instead. Angelo was looking at him with a mix of pity and amusement.

"What?" John snapped, not liking the look in his eyes.

"Oh, I just find it funny that you seem to think Sherlock has no feelings, cannot feel for another person," Angelo said serenely, dropping into the vacated seat.

John suppressed the urge to growl that he was sitting in _Sherlock's_ seat and no one sat there but _Sherlock_. He concentrated instead on Angelo's words. "What do you mean? I know Sherlock can feel. He loved Irene Adler. He loves Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure he loves his Mummy and even Mycroft, deep down."

"I am talking of real romantic love, not that mockery of it he pretended to feel for Ms. Adler." Angelo seemed affronted by the very idea.

"You've got it all wrong," John argued, not sure _why_ he was having this conversation. "He was heartbroken by her death."

"Nonsense." Angelo waved away John's words. "I have seen him in love. It is obvious he has never loved another like this. His eyes alight; they glow. He, who never stops moving, pauses for this love, to help this one along. I have never seen him care for another even half as much."

John's stomach lurched and he decided he was probably just coming down with the flu. It couldn't possibly be a reaction to Angelo's words. "You must be mistaken," he protested weakly. "Sherlock's never been in love like that; I would have seen it."

Angelo just smiled and got up, patting John's shoulder twice as he passed, tossing his parting words over his shoulder. "It is true, what they say: love is blind."

John froze. Did that mean what he thought it meant? It couldn't possibly be. Did Sherlock love…_him_? John replayed his conversation with Angelo over in his mind. It certainly sounded as if that's what he was implying. It couldn't be though…could it?

John sifted through his memories. Assuming Angelo was telling the truth about Sherlock, who could it be? He recalled all the times Sherlock had stopped and explained his reasoning after John asked him to, no matted how many times he had refused when asked by members of the Yard. The terror in Sherlock's eyes when John had stepped out of the changing room in enough explosives to level three city blocks. The obscure conversation with Moriarty that John realized, with a sinking feeling, he was starting to understand.

"_I will burn the _heart_ out of you."_

"_I've been reliably informed I don't have one."_

"_We both know that's not true."_

The glass of water splashed in his face after he'd been, well, _staring_ at a woman all night. Sherlock's odd behavior that could almost be classified as _jealousy_.

It _was_ him, John realized. Sherlock loved him and, it seemed, had for some time.

He recalled the water glass incident again and winced as his gut twisted with feeling of…_guilt_?

John sat up straighter and took stock of his own emotions. Guilt over his actions, relief whenever he saw Sherlock unharmed after a case, exasperation at Sherlock's more outlandish experiments, but never _anger_. With a click, everything snapped into place. John's eyes widened and he bolted out of the restaurant, Angelo's cries of glee echoing behind him.

"Sherlock!" he called.

* * *

_Affection_.

He supposed it could only be classified as such.

He felt _affection_ for his flatmate. It was the only explanation he could give for his inexcusable actions back at Angelo's.

He thought he heard his name and paused, but then continued trudging down the street. Really, Sherlock mused, if you looked at the facts, that was really the only possible explanation. That affection was cold comfort, though, when faced with the imminent loss of his best friend and blogger. After all, there was no way that John was going to wish to remain flatmates after the debacle with the water glass. He could feel himself blush at the remembrance of the incident. What had he been thinking? It had been extremely childish and hadn't solved a thing. It had, however, felt very satisfying. To use such a direct method to remind John of his presence. It had been quite refreshing to once again have John's attention entirely to himself, no matter how immature an action it had taken to regain it.

Behind him he could hear footsteps. "Sherlock!" He turned. It was John.

The doctor stood about twenty feet from him, but that distance was quickly eaten up by John's strides as he approached, until only twelve inches separated them.

Sherlock broke the silence first, staring at John's chin. "John, I'm sorry for—"

"Shut up, Sherlock." His gray eyes shot up to meet John's blue. He couldn't quite identify the look in them. At least John hadn't sounded angry. "I love you, too, you idiot."

Sherlock was going to answer, but soon found he couldn't as John kissed him.

The detective realized his arms were wrapped around John, but couldn't bring himself to care how they got there. All he could think of was John and how, maybe, he wouldn't have to get a new flatmate after all.


End file.
